Tag Archives: Tina Fey

If you are a Mother, if you have a Mother, if you know a Mother…to you I say THANK YOU.

Over these last 3 years of Motherhood not only have I started capitalizing the M in this loaded word, but I’ve realized every, single person I know contributes to this marvelous, overwhelming task of raising a human being.

Thank you for sharing your:

Wisdom

Stories

Photos

Techniques

Advice

and above all, Distractions

Cheers to you.

And now I will share A Mother’s Prayer for Her Daughter by Tina Fey because it makes me laugh and almost weep at the same time.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered,

May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half

And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her

When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.

Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes

And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.

Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,

For Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming

Magenta for one day –

And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever,

That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers

And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,

Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,

For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,

That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.

“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental note to call me. And she will forget.

I sit with G in a corner booth at a hamburger joint on the Upper West Side while I contemplate the purchase I just made at a posh cosmetics outlet next door. I’m pretty sure the saleswoman up sold me. Yep, I’m pretty sure I let that happen. I know I don’t NEED this NARS blusher in ‘orgasm’. Why didn’t I just say NO when she said the word orgasm. This is why I don’t run errands when I’m hungry. I went into the store just to pick up the one facial moisturizer on the planet with SPF 30 that doesn’t make my face break out and I walk out with a NARS blusher called orgasm. I know, I’ll stop saying it.

As I replay the events in my head of how that saleswoman bamboozled me, I suddenly hear G squeal with delight. I look up to see him practically hurl himself over the top of the booth to get to the table next to us.

‘Whoa mister!’ I laugh as I grab his thick little waist, ‘Where are you going?’

And then I see her. She’s about 6, maybe 7. She’s wearing a darling little marinière dress with a tousled mess of dark curls and a devilish grin on her face that’s missing a couple of teeth. G is trying to get to her table. I pull him down.

‘Sorry,’ I smile to the girl’s father. I look down at my menu and there is the squeal again, only this time it’s in response to the little lady shoving her hand over the booth and under G’s armpit to give him a ticklish squeeze. Her tongue has popped out the side of her mouth due to her concentrated effort and I’m pretty sure I just saw an actual twinkle in her eye. G flops down on the bench as he tries to catch his breath. Then he jumps up again to surprise her and she shoves her hand under his arm again while peals of those great and pure toddler giggles come pouring out of him.

imgur.com

My goodness, I think. How am I going to put an end to this? I’m not even sure the iPad stands a chance against this little mouse. But then I see her father sign his credit card slip.

He looks up at G and says, ‘Bye, we have to go,’ to which our little hero responds with what we like to call, stink face.

This is a classic nose scrunch/mouth frown combo that makes him look like an 80 year old man who just accidentally passed gas and tries to blame it on someone else.

The father laughs and says…’I’m sorry! We have to go.’

The little girl’s eyes suddenly grow larger as she shoots her hand over the booth for one last armpit squeeze. With a wicked little grin she waves a playful goodbye.

As she leaves the table, G chucks himself face first down onto the bench, crestfallen. He lies there catatonic, his face is frozen in disappointment. The other patrons around us try to suppress their giggles.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘There are plenty of other girls in the sea.’

The waitress comes over to take our order and says, ‘Your son was just flirting with Tina Fey‘s daughter. They come in here all the time,’ she laughs, ‘I just thought you’d like to know.’

I sit with G in a corner booth at a hamburger joint on the Upper West Side while I contemplate the purchase I just made at a posh cosmetics outlet next door. I’m pretty sure the saleswoman up sold me. Yep, I’m pretty sure I let that happen. I know I don’t NEED this NARS blusher in ‘orgasm’. Why didn’t I just say NO when she said the word orgasm. This is why I don’t run errands when I’m hungry. I went into the store just to pick up the one facial moisturizer on the planet with SPF 30 that doesn’t make my face break out and I walk out with a NARS blusher called orgasm. I know, I’ll stop saying it.

As I replay the events in my head of how that saleswoman bamboozled me, I suddenly hear G squeal with delight. I look up to see him practically hurl himself over the top of the booth to get to the table next to us.

‘Whoa mister!’ I laugh as I grab his thick little waist, ‘Where are you going?’

And then I see her. She’s about 6, maybe 7. She’s wearing a darling little marinière dress with a tousled mess of dark curls and a devilish grin on her face that’s missing a couple of teeth. G is trying to get to her table. I pull him down.

‘Sorry,’ I smile to the girl’s father. I look down at my menu and there is the squeal again, only this time it’s in response to the little lady shoving her hand over the booth and under G’s armpit to give him a ticklish squeeze. Her tongue has popped out the side of her mouth due to her concentrated effort and I’m pretty sure I just saw an actual twinkle in her eye. G flops down on the bench as he tries to catch his breath. Then he jumps up again to surprise her and she shoves her hand under his arm again while peals of those great and pure toddler giggles come pouring out of him.

My goodness, I think. How am I going to put an end to this? I’m not even sure the iPad stands a chance against this little mouse. But then I see her father sign his credit card slip. He looks up at G and says, ‘Bye, we have to go,’ to which our little hero responds with what we like to call, stink face. This is a classic nose scrunch/mouth frown combo that makes him look like an 80 year old man who just accidentally passed gas and tries to blame it on someone else. The father laughs and says…’I’m sorry! We have to go.’ The little girl’s eyes suddenly grow larger as she shoots her hand over the booth for one last armpit squeeze. With a wicked little grin she waves a playful goodbye.

As she leaves the table, G chucks himself face first down onto the bench, crestfallen. He lies there catatonic, his face is frozen in disappointment. The other patrons around us try to suppress their giggles.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘There are plenty of other girls in the sea.’

The waitress comes over to take our order and says, ‘Your son was just flirting with Tina Fey’s daughter. They come in here all the time,’ she laughs, ‘I just thought you’d like to know.’